Page 1 of The Nameless Ones

I

Home is the sailor, home from the sea,

And the hunter home from the hill.

Robert Louis Stevenson, ‘Requiem’

Chapter I

The two figures were by now a familiar sight, if only to a select few, for even ones such as these, who guarded their privacy so assiduously, must inevitably become known to some of their neighbors. For a time, they had not been seen out together, and only the black man, generally believed to be the younger, was noticeable on the street and the surrounding blocks. It was rumored that the other, the older (marginally) and less elegant (by a more considerable degree), was ill, or perhaps recovering from illness, although questions directed, however discreetly, to Mrs Evelyn Bondarchuk, the woman who occupied the first floor apartment in their building, were met with a stony silence from the lady herself, and the disapproving yaps of her assorted Pomeranians.

According to local lore, it was Mrs Bondarchuk herself who owned the property, although she carefully concealed her interest through the use of shelf companies, a series of lawyers at least as tight-lipped as she, and a Dickensian amount of paperwork – not that anyone was unduly troubled by this minor act of deception, which had long ago mutated from suspicion into fact. After all, this was New York City, and more specifically Manhattan, where various levels of eccentricity, reinvention, and even downright criminality were, if not a given, then at least quotidian.

But the truth of the matter was that Mrs Bondarchuk was merely a tenant, albeit one who functioned also as a watchdog, since her chair by the bay window of her apartment offered a clear view of the street in two directions. (Mrs Bondarchuk’s bark, it might have been said, was probably worse than her Pomeranians’ bite, although it was a close-run thing, and none of the neighbors were in any hurry to test the hypothesis. The Pomeranians were nippy little beasts when the mood took them, but Mrs Bondarchuk possessed an undeniable solidity, and all her own teeth.)

A few years earlier, there had been some unpleasantness at the property involving a man with a gun, but it, and he, had been taken care of. Since then, Mrs Bondarchuk had committed with even greater acuity to her role as first line of defense. She now understood it was more than a sop from her landlords, a pointless task offered out of pity to an old woman, or a well-intended effort to endow her twilight years with a sense of purpose. No, Mrs Bondarchuk was essential to them, and she loved them for making her so. She had even inquired about the possibility of being given a gun, although this suggestion was politely rebuffed. Mrs Bondarchuk’s feelings were not hurt, though. She had asked more out of interest than actual desire. She did not wish to own a gun. In her youth, her father had retained a seven-shot Nagant M1895 revolver from his period of service in the Soviet military. He had kept it clean, well-oiled, and concealed beneath a floorboard in the bedroom. Mrs Bondarchuk had used it only once, when a vagrant entered the house and attempted to rape her mother. Mrs Bondarchuk – or Elena Tikhonov as she was formerly known, before the changes to her name wrought by emigration, anglicization, and marriage – shot him in the chest, and later helped her father and mother to bury the remains in the forest. She was twelve years old.

Then, as now, she was untroubled by what she had done. The vagrant was bad, and had she not acted as she did, he would undoubtedly have hurt or murdered her mother, and possibly Elena, too, before going on to commit further degenerate acts. And, yes, the sixth commandment declared ‘Thou shalt not kill’, but Mrs Bondarchuk had always believed that Moses, in returning from Mount Sinai, had neglected to bring with him a final tablet, the one containing all the fine print, possibly because his arms were already full.

Mrs Bondarchuk had never shared with another soul outside her immediate family the details of the killing: not with her late husband, whom she had loved dearly, and not even with the two men who owned the building in which she lived, although she was certain that they, at least, would have understood. There was, she felt, no particular benefit to be gained from raising the subject. The vagrant, after all, was dead, and a confession was unlikely to alter that fact. Mrs Bondarchuk was also in possession of a clear conscience on the matter, and while she might, in the years that followed, have occasionally contemplated shooting someone else – certain politicians, for example, or particularly patronizing shopgirls – she had managed to resist the temptation, helped in large part by not being in possession of a suitable weapon. All in all, it was probably for the best that her landlords had not agreed to provide her with a gun. Shooting someone in extremis might be forgivable, but one shouldn’t make a habit of it, regardless of provocation.

And here they came now, Mr Louis and Mr Angel, these two men whom she adored like errant sons, the first tall and black, the second short and, well, whiteish. He had lately been so ill, her Mr Angel, and he had already suffered so much; this, Mrs Bondarchuk had always intuited from his face and eyes. He was recovering, though, even if he was now slower than before. His partner, too, regarded him differently, as if the sickness had reminded him that, in no time at all, one of them must inevitably be parted from the other, and whatever days remained to them were better spent in accord.

But at least they were not alone. They had friends. There was the private detective, Mr Parker, who brought her candy from Maine; and the two brothers, Tony and Paulie Fulci, who were so gentle for such big men, and whom she could not imagine hurting a fly – other people possibly, perhaps even probably, but not a fly.

And they in turn had Mrs Bondarchuk, who prayed for Mr Louis and Mr Angel every night. She prayed that they might have a good death, one marked by ritual and a proper burial, and therefore the salvation of the soul; and not a bad death, an interment in some pit without a blessing or a marker, in the manner of a wandering rapist. Death was the inescapable path. One’s thoughts were over the mountains, but death was always behind one’s shoulder. Death was an old woman who slept in hell, and took her instructions from God. She was inevitable, but not implacable. She could be spoken to, and negotiated with. Amuse her, interest her, and she might move on.

Mr Louis and Mr Angel, Mrs Bondarchuk believed, greatly amused Death.

Angel waved to Mrs Bondarchuk as they approached the stairs leading to the door of their building.

‘Do you think Mrs Bondarchuk has ever killed anyone?’ he said.

‘Definitely,’ said Louis.

‘No doubt in your mind?’

‘None at all.’

‘I thought it was just me.’

‘No, she’s killed someone for sure. Shot them, is my guess. Remember that time she suggested we give her a gun?’

‘Yeah,’ said Angel. ‘She was kind of matter-of-fact about it.’

‘Maybe we should have let her have one.’

‘We could always give her one for Christmas, if her heart is still set on it.’

‘She’s Orthodox. We’d have to wait until January.’

‘On the other hand,’ said Angel, ‘might be best to stick with candy and a Macy’s gift card.’

‘Still, it’s something to keep in reserve in case she gets bored of candy.’

Angel paused to watch a crow alight on a nearby tree.

‘That’s sorrow, right?’ he said. ‘One for sorrow, like in the rhyme.’

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